“Wed—me?” I gasped. “I . . . of course not!”

“There is no of course about it,” another realm ruler spoke up. It was Maharani Sadhika of Dhyrma, an amber-skinned queen covered in bangles. She flared a jewel-studded nostril, tossing a glossy braid. “Anointed Ones swear fealty to their Raybearer, no? In mind and in body. But some of us already have spouses. Concubines.” She gestured to the retinue of pretty young men who sat around her. “Do you expect us to forsake them for you?”

“No. I mean . . .” I sputtered. “Celibacy is custom, yes. But I won’t require it. It’s certainly not necessary to accept the Ray.”

A strident tenor remarked, “How disappointing.”

My face burned in surprise. Scandalized whispers tittered throughout the hall. Heart pounding with irritation, I met the speaker’s eye.

Zuri, King of Djbanti, stared straight back.

He looked my age, with waist-length locs tied back in a sweeping ponytail. His form, though athletic, sprawled drunkenly across his seat cushion. A gold ring winked in his ear over a smooth jawline. His lips curved generously, a permanent kiss.

“I, for one,” he slurred, “was looking forward to meeting our empress’s private needs. After all, the law requires Raybearers to produce heirs with their Anointed Ones. We must obey the law, Lady Empress.”

Ignore him, Ai Ling Ray-spoke, rolling her eyes. Zuri’s beauty is the only interesting thing about him. He was crowned barely a year ago, and he spends all his time hunting and gambling on games of mancala. Djbanti’s true rulers are merchants. Zuri’s nothing more than a puppet. At least . . . that’s what my spies report. I didn’t get much out of him directly. Ai Ling paused. My persuasion Hallow didn’t . . . work on Zuri, exactly. He avoided direct answers to my questions, and so I don’t know what he thinks of you. He came to the banquet anyway, obviously. But I’m still trying to figure out why I couldn’t influence him.

You have to have a brain to be persuaded, I retorted, and Ai Ling’s laughter vibrated through the bond.

Then I told Zuri of Djbanti, “Traditions are made to be broken.”

His dark features shifted in surprise, then he erupted in laughter. The low, musical sound infected the hall, easing the tension and causing others to join in. I smiled instinctively, though something about Zuri’s laugh made my brows knit. He didn’t sound insincere, exactly. Just . . . precise. As though his voice were a song practiced to perfection—an instrument carefully tuned.

“I meant no offense, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Zuri, flashing a pearly smile that left me—just a little—breathless. “I look forward to falling in love with all of you.” He scooped up his chalice, sloshing the wine. I was dimly aware that while other guests had drained cup after cup, Zuri’s had stayed full. Still, he loafed on his cushion, slurring as he tasted. “To peace,” he declared, with a flourish.

“To peace,” the hall echoed, and the mood lightened from Zuri’s antics.